


Closeness And (Dis)Comfort

by Omorka



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode tag for "Alias Micky Dolenz": so how did they decide which one to take back to the Pad?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closeness And (Dis)Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Episode Tag for "Alias Micky Dolenz" and spoilery for same. This is intended to be pre-slash, but if you prefer, you can probably read it as smarm. Contains threats of violence.

“This would be a lot easier,” the police captain grumbled, “if someone had noticed what color your friend’s suit was.”

“You ain’t just whistling Dixie,” Mike agreed. The two young men flailing in the precinct office’s chairs both wore Micky’s face, and at the moment they were both jabbering with his voice, too.

Peter blinked. “Micky’s the one on the right,” he said, as calmly and surely as if he were telling Mike that the light was on.

Mike squinted, watching the two identical men squirm. “I think you’re right, but . . .” His voice trailed off as they began swatting at each other with their fedoras. Micky had gotten awfully fond of that hat already.

The captain shrugged. “We’ll have to send over to the FBI office for a copy of Babyface’s fingerprints. That oughta settle it.”

“How long will that take?” Mike asked, as the one in the bluer suit yanked the other one’s hat down over his nose.

“Not too long,” the captain answered, digging a form out of the filing cabinet. “If we get the requisition form over there first thing tomorrow morning, eh, maybe four days. Three if we’re lucky and they still have them in the active file.”

The two Micky-faced men stopped struggling with each other to turn and stare. “Three days?” they screeched in unison.

“Three? Three days - no, that won’t do at all,” Mike protested. “Peter, tell ‘em - Peter? Pete, where’d ya go?”

“Sorry,” Peter’s voice rang out in the hallway. “I had to step outside for a moment.” He hurried back into the room, a canvas bag slung under his arm.

The captain frowned. “Quiet kid,” he muttered to Mike. “I didn’t even hear him leave.”

The kid in the greyer suit said, “He stepped out when the camera changed angles a minute ago.” The one in the blue suit took the opportunity to yank his lapels, nearly toppling them both out of their chairs; they resumed grabbing at each other’s hats and hair.

The captain scowled at them, then shifted to address Peter, continuing, “Whaddaya got there?”

Peter smiled and removed a pair of slightly battered drumsticks from the bag. “Nothing special,” he answered, as he turned the sticks to face the same direction and extended them to the mirror image on the left.

The young man took them, Micky’s features twisted into a look of puzzlement. “What - whaddaya want me to play, Pete?”

Peter shrugged, beaming. “Whatever you feel like.”

The young man shifted one stick to the other hand and turned his chair to face the edge of the clerk’s desk. He tapped out a couple of paradiddles, watching Peter’s face carefully. Whatever he was looking for there, he didn’t find it; he kept going, adding an extra beat here and there, until he’d managed to stumble through something vaguely resembling the drum solo from “Wipe Out” at two-thirds speed.

Mike stole a glance at the other chair. 

_That_ version of Micky’s face was curled into a look of disapproval; as the other young man stuttered to a halt, this one shook his head and reached for the sticks. “No, man,” he insisted, “you’ve got to loosen your wrists up; you’re gonna strain your shoulders if you do it like that.”

“Why don’t you show him?” Peter asked, the gentle grin still on his lips.

The fellow on the left blinked and handed over the drumsticks. The one on the right adjusted his chair, cleared his throat, then looked straight at Peter. “Just the kit?”

“However you feel,” Peter shrugged. The smile never changed, but his eyes were twinkling.

This one didn’t bother finding a desk to bang on; the beads found the surfaces of an invisible tom and snare as his feet worked imaginary pedals for the kick and hi-hat. Mike’s fingers reached for an equally imaginary guitar for the opening lick as he recognized from the drum pattern what song this was; Peter’s came in three beats later on a slide as the bass fell in, and the young man who was now unmistakably Micky opened his mouth: “Mary, Mary, where’re you going to?”

Mike realized somewhere around the bridge that it must have looked ludicrous to the captain, and probably Babyface, too, especially since from their point of view, Micky was singing a cappella. But for the three of them, the memory of a couple dozen rehearsals came to life under their fingers, and they heard every note, down to Micky’s vocal leap on the lead-out.

Peter nodded as he pocketed an imaginary pick. “Not bad,” he noted, “although the percussion line was a little thin this time.”

“We didn’t have Davy’s tambourine or maracas,” Micky pointed out. “Those really help fill out the parts where the guitar line drops out.”

Mike turned to the captain. “That’s Micky Dolenz,” he said. “There’s no way Babyface could know the words to a song I wrote last month, and I don’t think any of us ever mentioned the name of the fourth member of our band to him, either.”

“Of course it’s me!” Micky squeaked.

Babyface raised a hand to his temples. “Okay, okay, ya got me. Drums I can maybe do, but I ain’t tried to sing since Momma put me in choir before my voice changed.”

The captain whipped a pair of cuffs from his inside jacket pocket and snapped them on Babyface’s wrists. “Okay, Morales,” he ordered, “no funny business.”

Babyface grinned slyly. “Okay, copper.” He tilted his head towards Micky. “I get the feeling that’s his job, anyway.”

“Oh, yeah, you bet,” Micky agreed, a note of hysteria creeping into his voice. “Just watch!” He attempted to do a backflip off the chair and ended up crashing into the hatrack; his fedora and drumsticks went flying.

As the captain gestured for a patrolman to help him out, Babyface looked thoughtful. “Hey, kid,” he asked quietly, “did you do this for the reward, or did the bulls here strong-arm you into it?”

“Actually, neither,” Micky answered as he retrieved the second stick from under the captain’s desk. “I got dragged into this when one of your associates decided to beat me to a pulp on the street while apologizing his mouth off. Then when I tried to turn the whole thing over to the captain here, another one of your business partners tried to shoot me!”

“Interesting.” Babyface looked down at his cuffs, then back at Micky. “Tell you what, cuz. You’re on my hit list for this. No hard feelings, y’unnderstand, just business. But those guys that tried to put the hit on you - they’re responsible for you bein’ involved in the first place, so they’re higher on my list than you are.” He narrowed his eyes as he grinned, reminding Mike uncomfortably of a shark. “You keep an eye on the papers, cuz. When you see those two guys on page two, shot dead and no one knows who did it - you start running. You and your two friends there.” He dropped his fedora on his head two-handed and tugged down the brim, the cuffs clinking. “That’ll be your head start.” 

Mike grabbed Micky’s wrist in one hand and Peter’s wrist in the other and hustled them out of there before Micky could try and reply.

\---

Yawning, Micky trundled down the stairs. He hadn’t had much appetite for dinner, but now that it was half past bedtime, his stomach was growling. Their pantry promised to be a little less bare than usual once they got a chance to sell off their rewards, but right now, if he remembered correctly, they should at least have some celery and maybe a hot dog or two.

“Careful,” Peter’s voice called from the kitchen table. “If Mike notices you didn’t slide down, he might get suspicious.”

Micky grinned as he waved Peter’s concerns off. “Nah, then I’d just have to sing the harmony line for ‘Papa Gene’s Blues’ to reassure him.” The grin widened. “Without him singing the melody line.”

Peter stuck out his tongue at him. “Showoff.”

“You know it,” Micky bragged, yanking the icebox door open. “Dangit, who ate the last hot dog?”

“I threw it out,” Peter confessed. “I think it went bad. It was turning green.”

“Well, if it was so bad even you wouldn’t cook with it, I guess I can give it a pass.” Micky turned to the cabinet instead. “So, do you want anything?”

“I just came out here to get a glass of milk, but actually, yeah, I could use a bite, too,” Peter admitted.

Micky stuck his head into the cabinet and announced, “Our choices appear to be cornflakes, really old cornflakes, Sugar Pops, and really, _really_ old _frosted_ cornflakes.”

“Sugar Pops for me,” Peter said.

Micky set the boxes of cornflakes and Sugar Pops on the table, then went back to the refrigerator for milk and orange juice, while Peter fished two mostly-clean bowls out of the drying rack and hunted for a pair of spoons. By the time he found a second one, Micky had already poured his cereal and started eating; Peter filled his own bowl and then splashed in nearly twice his usual amount of milk.

Micky demolished half the bowl and came up for air. Peter was looking at him oddly, his head tilted slightly, as if he were studying something.

Clearing his throat, Micky asked, “Anything wrong?”

“No,” Peter sighed. “Just trying to see what Mike was seeing, I think. Or, I guess, not seeing.”

Micky set the spoon down, confused. “What wasn’t Mike seeing?”

“That’s just it,” Peter mumbled. “I’m not sure.” He blinked, then continued, much more softly, “I don’t get how Mike could mix you up with Babyface for more than a minute.”

Blinking, Micky leaned back in his chair. “Pete, if it weren’t for the part being on the wrong side, I’m not sure _I_ could tell Babyface from my own reflection in the mirror. I’m not about to blame Mike for being confused.”

“But -” Peter interrupted himself, his gaze falling to his cereal; he stirred it idly for a moment.

“But what, Pete?” Micky tried to force his voice to be gentle.

Peter sighed again, his shoulders rising and falling. “You don’t _feel_ anything alike.” He rubbed at one eye, blinking. “I mean, I guess if I looked at a picture of you and picture of him, it’d be hard to tell, but - he’s all cold, and slippery, and prickly, like broken icicles. And you’re all warm and buzzy, like electricity. Nothing alike at all.”

Micky’s eyes widened as he understood what Peter was getting at. “Different vibes, you mean.”

“Yes!” Peter grinned in delight. “That’s it exactly. Different vibes, way different.” The grin faded a little. “So why didn’t Mike feel that?”

“I dunno,” Micky admitted. “I think - some people just pick up on vibrations more than others. You’re really open and trusting, Peter, so maybe picking up my vibes is part of that. Mike’s not so open all the time, you know?”

Peter’s mouth pursed in thought. “I thought everyone did that,” he finally said.

“I think everyone does, a little,” Micky agreed, “but not everyone’s always aware of it. Sometimes it’s a subconscious thing, dig?”

Peter stirred his now-soggy cereal and stared at the table. Finally, he met Micky’s gaze again. “I dig.” He fell silent for a long pause; Micky was about to try and break the silence with a joke when Peter blurted, “I like your vibes better.”

“Well, I should hope so,” Micky sniffed. “I mean, he’s a cold, cruel, vicious-type person.”

“Mike’s not that bad!” Peter protested.

“Wait, what?” Micky was baffled. “I thought you meant Babyface.”

“Him, too,” Peter agreed.

Micky tried to cover over a brief moment of speechlessness by stuffing his mouth with the remaining cornflakes. After trying to chew with his cheeks bulging, he swallowed the lump and asked, “You were comparing my vibes to Mike’s?”

“I didn’t mean I don’t like the feel of Mike’s,” Peter protested. “I do. But I think I like yours better.” He looked down at the mush left in the bowl again.

Micky’s spoon clattered across the bottom of his now-empty cereal bowl. “Um, well, thanks.” He smiled. “Especially since I’m not spending the night in a jail cell waiting for Babyface’s prints to arrive on account of you picking up on them.”

Peter shook his head. “I’d’ve thought of asking you both to sing even if I didn’t. The drumsticks were mostly to prompt you to do it on your own, since I figured he wouldn’t even offer.”

“Either way, it worked.” Micky stood up, dumping his empty bowl into the sink. “You done?”

“Yeah.” Peter started to clear his own tableware; Micky scooped it up and dropped it on top of his with a clatter.

Yawning, Micky turned back towards the stairs. “When are we picking up Davy at the airport?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Noon, I think, but you’ll have to check the calendar.” Peter slid down in his chair. “Or ask Mike.”

“He’s asleep, and after today I don’t really wanna wake him,” Micky pointed out as he laid one hand on the spiral railing. Noticing Peter’s change in posture, he leaned around the stair pole. “You okay?”

“Well, with Davy gone, I’ve had to sleep by myself,” Peter pointed out. His lip quivered.

Micky snorted. “Pete, you’re not really afraid of sleeping alone, are you?”

“I wouldn’t be if we hadn’t had hoodlums pointing guns at us all evening,” Peter said, his voice getting smaller.

“So -” Micky’s expression softened. “You want me to take Davy’s bunk for tonight, is that it?”

Peter gave him a soft, tiny smile. “I’d like that, I think.”

Micky pressed a hand to his jaw and suppressed a chuckle. “Okay, Big Pete. But I dunno how Davy’s going to like it.”

“I’ll explain,” Peter said excitedly. “He’ll understand. He knows I’m sometimes afraid of the dark.”

“Okay, then.” Micky yawned. “Just for tonight.”

“Just for tonight,” Peter agreed. “And if I wake up in the night, I won’t have to wonder if it’s really you in the other bed.”

Micky paused with his hand on the doorknob. “You think Mike would.” He wasn’t sure if he meant it as a question, but it didn’t come out as one.

“He wouldn’t mean it,” Peter assured him, “but yeah, I think he’d wonder. At least until you sang.”

Micky sighed. “So, rehearsal as soon as we get Davy home. Got it.”

“It’s not his fault,” Peter added. “But he really couldn’t tell, Micky, and it scared me.”

“So it’s not just you being afraid of the dark?” Micky asked. “You don’t think he’d try and hurt me, Pete, you have to know he wouldn’t.”

“No,” Peter agreed. “But he’d be alone in the dark with someone he wouldn’t be sure he could trust, even though he knows better, and then he’d be awake all night, and then he’d be tired when he drove us to the airport, and that’s never good, especially on the freeway, and _please,_ Micky, just for tonight!” His voice rose sharply.

A sleepy voice called over the upstairs railing, “What’s goin’ on down there?”

“Pete’s being scared of the dark again,” Micky called back, “so I’m going to sleep in Davy’s bunk tonight to keep him company, okay?”

“Sure,” Mike answered. “Just don’t oversleep, okay?”

“I’ll get him up on time,” Peter replied brightly.

“Great,” Micky groaned as he pushed open the door to the downstairs bedroom. “A cheery blond wake-up call.”

“I won’t use the banjo this time,” Peter promised. Micky checked for crossed fingers, then dropped heavily into Davy’s bunk as Peter turned out the lights.

He was not terribly surprised when, an hour later, Peter slithered into Davy’s bed, too. “Everything okay, Pete?” he asked as his friend curled up next to him.

“Got spooked for a moment,” Peter breathed. “Everything’s fine now,” he murmured into the hollow of Micky’s throat, and fell immediately back to sleep.

“Could’ve done this in your bed in the first place and saved us the trouble of changing Davy’s sheets,” Micky grumbled as he curled one arm around Peter’s shoulders. It _was_ comfortable, he decided, as he started to drift off again.

Peter’s vibes, after all, were pretty nice, too.


End file.
